Bound by a Timeless Code
by rebel.congeriem
Summary: Sirius is sentenced to life in Azkaban, and Remus is sentenced to a life of servitude to a dangerous, unstable werewolf. But when they chance upon one another on a seemingly random day and in a seemingly random way, they soon find that perhaps their lives aren't as hopeless or as pitiful as they once believed them to be. SBRL.
1. in the still night of reverie

**A** / **N** : _so this is it_. my first story here on this amazing site. from pre-planning to writing (and editing over and over again until my eyes cross), it's been a wild ride so far, and i'm sure it'll only get wilder from this point on. also, this story will be canon divergent and has officially taken on the rating **M** for overall content—violence, foul language, close encounters of the _venereal_ kind, and everything in between _**!**_ honestly, it's better to be safe than sorry. (ɔ◔‿◔)ɔ

 **disclaimer** : the fantastic _harry potter_ series belongs to _j.k. rowling_. i own nothing except for the tears i can't help but shed over the fact that i own nothing. xD.

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 ** _BOUND BY A TIMELE_** ** _SS CODE_**

by: rebelcongeriem

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 _hands_ — _put your empty **hands** in **mine**_ ; _scars_ — _show me all the **scars** you **hide**_ — **rachel platten**

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 **I**. **SIRIUS**

Two years.

That was how long he'd been forced to endure the agonizingly cold, painfully lonely ambiance that was a permanent, but common, fixture at Azkaban—currently the only existing prison in wizarding Britain.

Two years since he'd last tasted freedom.

Two years since he'd last breathed in the fresh, crisp air of a beautiful, fall morning.

Two years since he'd last laughed with wild abandon, easily finding amusement in the strangest of places—usually at the most inopportune moments and at the expense of himself and others.

Two. _**Fucking**_. Years. All of which he'd spent wallowing in self-disgust and rage, too often lost in his own thoughts to care about the potential alleviation of his hunger pangs or the lack of cleanliness that assaulted his poor, inner-canine senses every morning upon waking to find that he was still locked away from society, deemed a certifiable threat to all and sundry.

Even if the only threat that _truly_ existed was the one he'd stupidly and foolishly gone and aimed at himself.

 _What_ threat, you ask?

Shouldn't it be obvious?

The deep, purple bags under his eyes and his broken, dirt-encrusted nails with their torn cuticles should be clue enough, as both were indicative of an inner turmoil he was determined, maybe even a little desperate, to keep under lock and key.

No wonder he was so bloody... _tired_ of it all.

Tired of fending off the hungry advances of his guards, the decay and despair their very presences so eagerly invoked keeping him awake most nights for fear of calling attention to the few, precious moments of happiness he still, _somehow_ , managed to scrounge up in the aftermath of his imprisonment; tired of trying to reconcile the Peter Pettigrew of his past with the man who'd willingly thrown away nine years of friendship to play puppet to a master who would _never_ see him as equal; so bloody tired of struggling against the inevitability of his death.

Why fight the inevitable?

Why fight death at all?

The stubborn git didn't know the first thing about letting go. And besides, if it wanted him badly enough, it'd stalk him from the shadows until it finally grew bored of the game and knocked him clean off the board. _Checkmate_.

He kind of hoped it would, to be perfectly—and maybe a little insanely—honest.

Because he was getting real sick and tired of staring at the stone walls of his cell all day, every day—for as long as they could hold his attention, which, ironically enough, never seemed to make it past the fifteen-minute mark. Blame the short attention span he'd been cursed with at birth. It wouldn't be very fair to blame him for something he so obviously couldn't help. But that didn't stop those _arseholes_ from trying.

What was it they called him?

Oh, _right_.

Batty Black, with his penchant for growling, yowling, and whining at the eerie, hair-raising manifestations of creepy soullessness and their human counterparts, both of whom constantly circled the prison, often using his cell block as a gathering point of convergence.

Did they really have nothing better to do than to dance on the proverbial grave of his self-proclaimed lunacy?

What was that saying? Time heals all wounds? Puh- _ **fucking**_ -lease.

It hardly possessed enough _oomph_ to heal one, let alone the dozens interspersed throughout every nook and cranny of his mind, coalescing to form one gigantic, festering ball of misery.

And that misery, once properly culminated, would find release the only way it knew how—through compartmentalization.

Half-functional.

But enough to clean house and make prison life a little more bearable.

Because, after all was said and done—and he'd said plenty; screamed it for so long that his voice had cracked—he was destined to die in this wretched place. Die a murderer and a betrayer, _**forever**_ marked by the sin of envy or other such nonsense, a man seemingly capable of all sorts of atrocities, all while the _real_ culprit escaped punishment for the role he'd wittingly played in the deaths of so many good, wonderful people.

And so, like with most nights, when it became too much—the knowledge that he would die in place of that rat bastard—he retreated into himself, burrowing so deeply underneath the stubborn wall of his subconscious that he no longer felt the cold of an unwanted existence, choosing instead to direct all the intensity of his focus on one simple yet delicate task.

Follow the thin, gossamery thread in his mind.

Interwoven with thorns and shadows, twisting and turning at various intervals—sometimes a dead end, sometimes not.

Until, eventually, as it _always_ did, it led him to a familiar door: large, black, a shade darker than the faded tincture of spilled ink, and heavy with intentions and the indomitable will of the Black heir.

The _disowned_ heir.

Last in a very long line of arrogant wankers with _serious_ superiority complexes—no pun intended.

However, it wasn't until he finally crossed the threshold—straight into the bosom of a mental sanctum heavily imbued with the sense of security and freedom his current living arrangements lacked—that he made a startling discovery.

He wasn't alone.

How...strange? Sounded about right.

"What're you doing here?" A curious Sirius Black asked, head cocked in contemplation as he studied the slender form leaning tiredly against the brick wall his subconscious must have conjured. " _How_ did you get here?"

"I don't know," the man whispered, his tone raspy—a low, rough sound that grated on his animagus senses, sending curling tendrils of heat through his veins. But as surprising and as unexpected as he found his own reaction to be, it only served to intensify his curiosity of a stranger who'd not only circumvented his psychic wards but had all but made himself home, immersing himself in a mind that very few, least of all those who believed him to be _evil incarnate_ , would label sane.

A true enigma.

And because he watched this enigmatic interloper closely, close enough to notice the trembling in his hand as he lifted it to his sandy brown hair—close enough to distinguish between the anxiety in his odd-colored but pretty eyes and the glint of confusion that had slowly begun to eclipse it—that brief moment of distraction cost him, allowing for the too tense, too thin man to pose a question of his own. "Where am I?"

"Isn't it obvious? You're in my head." Sirius tapped his right index finger against his temple, a playful smile twisting his lips. His long, dark—and perfectly _un_ matted—hair was currently tied back at the base of his neck with a black leather cord, the denouement of one who obsessed over the state of his hair on a regular basis.

Under _normal_ circumstances.

And by normal, he meant _**normal**_.

As in, typical.

Paradigmatic.

Which, like it or not, excluded Azkaban, where personal hygiene and grooming fell far below the mark of crucial or necessary—as evidenced by the godawful, powerfully debilitating stench that would frequently emanate from several, varying cells on any given day. In fact, he wouldn't be surprised if the poor sods had suffocated in their own horrendous body odor, given how often dementors were prone to allowing _shower_ breaks.

A big, fat nil on that score.

"Kind of surprised it let you in, to be honest. Half the time, it can't be bothered with me," he added, a thoughtful look flickering across his face even as he stewed over the possibility that his jailers might have found another way to break him. What better way to destroy what little presence of mind and self-worth he desperately clung to than to instill a deadly virus in the visible cracks of his psyche by throwing elusory broken harmlessness into the equation? "You must be special."

" _Me_? No," came the immediate reply, bitter repudiation threading through that strangely appealing, hoarse voice. "Not special. Far from it. Never was..." The man fell silent, a grimace settling over his pallid features; the noticeably deep mark stretching across his right cheekbone provided a stark contrast to the wanness of his appearance, further emphasized by the huddled posture he'd fallen into—he'd sunk to the floor, drawing his legs up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them as he hastily ducked his head, hiding his eyes and by default the shame that had wormed its way into his expression.

But he wasn't fast enough to escape the bold scrutiny of an impish gaze.

Or perhaps Sirius's own animus, fickle bastard that it was, had decided to relinquish overall control to him, allowing him free reign to do with his mind as he pleased. As it _should_ have done in the beginning.

"Yes, _you_. Do you see anyone else here? Seriously. Do you? If so, management needs to know. They don't like surprises."

Neither did he most days.

But Pretty Eyes could probably maybe change his tune— _maybe_.

"Uh...no?" the brunet mumbled after a time, almost reluctantly, as he dropped his chin onto his folded arms, not quite looking at him.

Head tilted in perusal, Sirius followed his line of sight, taking a much-needed moment to pass a cursory (but rather leery) glance around the room. Barren but for the one random wall, its two newest inhabitants, and the navy blue bean bag chair that had only just now materialized out of thin air, a product of the late Lily Potter's muggle-born influence over the years.

"No," Sirius echoed, throwing himself down onto the bean bag chair and lazily crossing one long leg over the other as he adopted a fractious expression, faux in nature but executed well enough to fool a stranger. "Merlin, you're killing me here. Don't you know how to laugh? Or hell, I don't know...smile? C'mon, show me _the smile_...And leave the mopes by the wayside," he griped, pulling a face. "Nobody likes the mopes."

Or the blahs.

And if they did, then something was seriously ( _ **disturbingly**_ ) wrong with them.

"You're... _interesting_ , okay? Own it."

Before someone else decided to take it. Because, as he well knew, there was always that one _arsehole_ who just couldn't seem to help himself.

It was in the code of _arseholiness_.

Just like playing twenty questions without a drop of firewhiskey...or introducing humor into a conversation weighed down with its arch-nemesis, the ever dreaded solemnity and its glaringly dull partner, sobriety.

And yet Sirius did just that.

But at least he sort of had an excuse this time.

He wanted—no, _needed_ —information. Pertinent information. Information that would hopefully allay some of this…impetuosity he was feeling—an impetuosity to get to know a bloke who could very well be a figment of his overactive imagination.

"But, you know, if you'd rather forgo labels altogether, I'm game." He shrugged—a nonchalant gesture. Wouldn't do to come across as _too_ excitable now, would it? "I'll need a name, though, for it to work—assuming you have one." A fair assumption, he'd say.

The poor, flustered man stared at him as if punch-drunk on the idea that anyone could possibly be interested enough to inquire after an introduction. "Ah—no…I mean, _yes_. Of course I have a name." His voice held a baffled note, and his eyes—sharp, amber hues with tiny flecks of green sprinkled throughout, framed by long, long lashes and sporting a look that, _frankly_ , reminded Sirius of a stray dog, starved for affection but too damn mistrustful and afraid to accept it—blinked at him in apparent bemusement. "But no one bothers to use it anymore."

"That bad, huh?" Sirius gave a sympathetic shake of his head. "A parent's prerogative for social degradation is a terrifying sight to behold."

If anyone would know what he was on about, _he_ would. His own parents had seen fit to name him after the brightest star in the night sky, which was fondly and colloquially referred to as the dog star. And naturally, as a child, _dog_ had been the only word to stand out in the impressionable mind of a six-year-old. Funny how he could only see it as a running joke now—something to chuckle about when he had no one to keep him company, not even the sneering ministry dugbogs who'd sometimes pop in for a visit, unannounced but with a deliberately smug attitude that would rankle and fester for hours after their departure.

"Well, what would you _like_ to be called then?" He pressed, drawing the one-syllable word out in a ridiculously exaggerated fashion. For some reason unbeknownst to him, Sirius really wanted to see him crack a smile, at least once, before this impromptu, little visit ended.

And if he had to act the berk to make it happen, then so be it.

His puzzled companion scratched behind his ear, a frown creasing his brow. And try as he might, Sirius couldn't tell whether the facial expression was due to concentration or disgruntlement. Maybe a little of both. "I don't know …" He said for the second time within minutes— _fifteen_ minutes for those who wished upon the star of technicality—frown easing somewhat as the wariness in his eyes softened. "I've never really thought about it." There was a long pause as he mulled over the question, and then his expression suddenly cleared and he nodded to himself, decision finally met.

"Moony," he whispered. "I-I think I'd like to be called Moony."

 _Moony_. Reminiscent of shimmering diamonds and thick, luminous mist, casting umbral shadows on a cruel world and bathing the darkness in a soft, silvery-white glow.

Surprisingly, it fit him.

"Moony it is," Sirius concurred unhesitatingly, relieved to finally have a name to put to the face. A face that would have been adorably boyish if not for the bilious cast to his features. "Original, cute, and easy to remember—can't believe _I_ didn't think of it first. But I guess I can live with that failure."

And why not? He'd lived with worse.

But the thought didn't affect him as strongly as it normally would have; he was too busy admiring the way the tips of Moony's ears reddened at his glib praise, the blush soon spreading from his head all the way to his neck in a rather sweet display of bashfulness—or...was that disbelief, tinged with self-recrimination, in his gaze?

And then—a ghost of a smile touched the brunet's lips, and Sirius found himself blanking, so many thoughts bouncing around his mind that he found it nearly impossible to settle on one. The only thing that mattered was that smile and the way it softened the angular planes of Moony's face, briefly shooing the shadows away until all that remained was the barest hint of gratitude, genuine and without expectation.

He felt it then, the first stirrings of triumph in his heart.

A smile might be nothing more than a contraction of certain facial muscles, but when Moony did it, it filled him with a sense of warmth and pride. Even a wrongfully convicted wizard needed one memorable affair to get through the day—if the dementors didn't _**mulct**_ him first, just like they had with every other pleasurable moment he'd surreptitiously tried to access during these last two years.

"What do I call you?" The quietly uttered words jerked him back to reality, firmly blockading the gully his wayward thoughts had been relatively close to slogging through, and Sirius had to stifle the rather irresistible urge to chortle at the tentative way Moony watched him, as if afraid he might have offended him with his question.

"Padfoot," he divulged with a conspiratorial wink, unabashedly pleased to share with him a part of himself only James and that traitorous rat, Pettigrew, had known.

As an animagus, Sirius could change at will into a remarkably large dog with shaggy black fur and slate-gray eyes—a form that was often confused for the grim, an omen in their world associated with death. It was because of the _alleged_ similarities between the two forms that James had jokingly dubbed him Padfoot, a name he was now stuck with but one he could look back on in fond remembrance whenever he inadvertently fell under the spell of anamnesis, forced to relive memories of a time before he'd known just what kind of sacrifice the callous, inhumane act of betrayal and the resulting heartache— _ **so**_ much fucking heartache—would demand from him in the end.

A blind date with a floating, moaning corpse.

It didn't help that the ghastly thing held a striking resemblance to Walburga on one of her bad hair days.

Or _any_ day, really.

Hell, with skin like _that_ —greyish, riddled with scabs, and practically falling off the bone—not to mention the large, gaping hole teeming with foul breath and oozing blackened trails of spittle, they could practically pass for twins.

"Pleased to meet you, Padfoot," Moony's deliciously low, gravelly tone slammed the door shut on that unpleasant bit of insightful inventiveness, and he would've gladly thanked him for it if the man hadn't chosen that particular moment to lean forward and extend his hand toward him, if only to capitalize on the idea of social propriety.

Amused, Sirius wasted no time in reaching across the space separating them to grasp his hand, accepting the firm handshake with an ambiguous grin—but then refusing to release his hand after the allotted time had passed, relishing the physical contact.

He brushed the pads of his fingers, calloused from years of playing Quidditch, along the arc of Moony's knuckles, stopping only after he'd heard the brunet's breath hitch and caught the glint of bafflement in his amber eyes. Had Moony been a woman, his pureblood upbringing would've made a nuisance of itself and insisted he press a chaste kiss to his proffered knuckles. He was tempted to do it anyway just to see how he would react.

"You only think it's nice because you don't know me." _Yet_. "But we'll have to remedy that soon. Let's say—The Three Broomsticks? Tomorrow?" Let the regrets and sorrows of yesterday lay to rest. "Yeah, _tomorrow_. Six on the dot. Don't be late."

But instead of rising to the bait like he'd expected— _wanted_ —him to, his would-be date said nothing, his gaze going unfocused for several long heartbeats, as if he was peering through the window of some alternate reality only he could see.

And then, suddenly, a strange light filled those golden depths, and Moony jerked upright, his body stiffening as the offensive scent of panic permeated the space, leaving a _pungent_ aftertaste in its wake.

Before Sirius could ask what was wrong, however, the man muttered a quick apology, the _blank_ look in his eyes gone but his attention fixated elsewhere—on something just beyond Sirius's line of sight and smell, something lurking just on the outskirts of the imaginary world they'd created for themselves. "I—I have to go."

And just like that, he was gone—winked out of fictitious existence without so much as a goodbye.

Sirius stared at the wall where Moony had sat—hunched over and hugging his knees—the deep burgundy of the bricks fading the longer he stared at them, still not entirely convinced he _hadn't_ made the man up on the spot to cure his loneliness.

But a temporary cure was better than no cure at all, he supposed.

And then—then it was Padfoot's turn.

With a terrible jolt, Sirius snapped back into consciousness, banging his head against the wall as he shot a frantic glance toward the small window overlooking the raging North Sea, its iron bars infused with _old_ magic— _ **powerful**_ magic.

Magic meant to keep the residents perfectly ensconced in a world of abject terror and torturous isolation.

It didn't take him long to catch onto the lamentable fact that he was alone, his newfound friend nowhere in sight.

Alone but not for long, the rattling sound of its breath drawing closer and closer as the Walburga-proxy followed the faint scent of _joie de vivre_ radiating off of him in waves, effectuated from his regrettably brief time spent in the delightful company of Moony.

His shoulders slumped as he dragged a hand through his snarled, matted hair, already resigning himself to a long, sleepless night of regrets and a blustering, relentless ache of loss.

But this was his life now—the poor hand he'd been dealt.

Forsaken.

Desolate.

An embittered shell of the proud, _dashingly_ resilient man he used to be.

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 **A/N** : last edited 9/15/18.


	2. silent pain, endless war

**A** / **N** : wow _**!**_ i wasn't really expecting this kind of response, but i'm absolutely honored that you all decided to give this story a try. as you've probably already deduced by now, this one will be told from different point-of-views; it's something new, something i _really_ wanted to attempt, and the deeper i delve into this story, the more excited i get to share it all with you. also, please bear in mind that this takes places in an alternate universe but with similar themes; therefore, expect certain changes to be made. **_&_** to everyone who read, followed, favorited, or reviewed the first chapter, thank you _**!**_ from the bottom of my heart. your comments mean the world to me—every last word. just the fact that someone out there has actually taken the time to read my work brings a bright, ecstatic grin to my face. you have _no_ idea how stupidly happy i am right now. you guys are amazing. _thank you_.

a little note on werewolf lore _**!**_ i've taken the liberty of changing things up a bit for the sake of this story. for example, when one is as close to their wolf as, say, greyback, is, they're capable of partial change without the influence of the full moon.

( **trigger warnings** : violence, a little bit of gore, death. please be advised. )

 **disclaimer** : once again, i own _nothing_. and that fact still saddens me.

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 ** _BOUND BY A TIMELE_** ** _SS CODE_**

by: rebelcongeriem

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 _my biggest **fear** is that **eventually**_ , _you will see me the way i_ _**see** myself_.

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 **II**. **REMUS**

A fierce howl rent the air, startling the peaceful tranquility of the night and sending flocks of sparrows and larks flaring up from the trees and flitting toward the cloudless, dark sky, their tiny wings flapping with frantic determination.

An involuntary shudder rippling through him, Remus Lupin drew his knees up tightly to his chest and slanted a wistful look through the drooping canopy of the huge, old oak tree he sat beneath, watching as the tiny, dark silhouettes grew smaller and smaller with the increasing distance, illuminated as they were by the glow of the crescent moon.

Must be nice—to possess the gift of flight.

As a child fresh out of the hell of his first transformation, he'd often wished for his own pair of wings. Wings that would have allowed for a freedom he'd so desperately hungered to embrace.

What he would give for the chance to spread those wings now.

To experience a freedom in which he could pretend he was normal and average. To pretend he lived with a perpetual cold that raised a rumpus once a month, proving dangerous _only_ to his immune system and not to the multitudes of innocent people who found themselves on the wrong side of a wolf's claws by virtue of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Better to wallow in the sweet, blessed relief that came from ignorance than admit—at least aloud where anyone could hear him—that his condition was nothing more than the byproduct of a self-serving, homicidal bastard's play at revenge.

Even boring and forgettable would be preferable to _this_ life...

Did his parents miss him?

Did they even bother to look for him after he'd disappeared right out from under their noses all those years ago?

Did they _care_?

Giving the tender skin between his thumb and forefinger a sharp pinch—best way to distract himself from his thoughts; the last thing he wanted to do was lose himself in the memories of a childhood that never was—he averted his eyes away from the moon, hoping to escape the judgmental glare that hid in the brilliant, nearly blinding glow of her light.

Until a bloodcurdling scream suddenly tore through the night, viciously ripping into the stillness of the woods and sending a cold shock of fear tingling through his veins.

Another howl—victorious and fierce—followed soon after. The howl of a predator seconds away from tearing into its prey.

His stomach dipped and rolled, churning like a river after a torrential downpour, and as he felt his throat constrict, Remus suddenly recalled the reason for his solitary presence in the middle of a clearing, peering into the heavy underbrush of Misty Wood and trying to catch a glimpse of his packmates. Packmates who would be, at this very moment, _hunting_.

 _The Venor_ , an inhumane, barbaric contest that Greyback, their _prick_ of an alpha, perpetuated at least twice a month, encouraging his packmates to pursue the unwilling prey of their, his, choice—humans—through dense foliage and undergrowth, utilizing a pack mentality to lure said prey into a trap...and a reward system to encourage participation.

Naturally, whoever caught the most humans would receive the choicest, juiciest selection of prime meat available during mealtimes, second to the alpha, of course.

For most, that was more than enough incentive to secure their cooperation.

And Greyback…Well, he was obviously up to his old tricks again (tricks that had become a permanent, almost necessary part of the game he derived _such_ perverse enjoyment from.)

His goal? To slowly but steadily chip away at Remus's restraint and moral code piece by flimsy piece until only the beast remained. A savage, bloodthirsty creature whose primary focus was the thrill derived from a fruitful hunt.

And the satisfying kill that usually came after. Satisfying in a way that would drive a grown man to hysterical tears. Something Greyback seemed to revel in...just as he reveled in the act of spreading as much terror and revulsion as the painful viciousness of his bite would allow. Even whilst wearing his human disguise—a disguise that did nothing to conceal the monster within.

It was that very monster Remus wanted so desperately to escape.

But in the end, escape proved futile when the werewolf-in-question could somehow anticipate his every move.

He was as good as trapped.

Caught in a trap not of his own making.

Blame his father. Apparently, the man hadn't known when to keep his trap shut. And he, rather than his father, was the one who was forced to pay the price in the end.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Remus brought his hands up to his ears to block out the shrill, high-pitched sounds of distress, humming loudly under his breath as a wet, gurgling scream—prey caught in the final throes of death—rose above the noise, slicing through the air like a dull blade aimed at his throat.

Then...nothing.

It was over.

As he sat there—cocooned in the tense, unnatural silence that had fallen as soon as her scream had tapered off, fading into oblivion—a familiar, cold chill scuttled down his spine. A familiarity that caused the hair on the nape of his neck to prickle with foreboding, as if an electric current had zapped through the air, sending his senses into overdrive...and sparking a vibrating hum of warning.

 _ **He's close**_.

Lines of strain bracketed Remus's mouth as he rested more of his weight against the trunk, the muscles in his shoulders and back tensing and contracting, the sinewy coils growing tauter and tauter in the darkening sphere of his agitation.

Having been ordered to stay put (on top of being told in no uncertain terms that if he even thought about moving from his chosen spot by the tree, the next victim of the Venor would be his little brother—a brother he'd never had the fortune to get to know, another reason to detest the very air Greyback breathed), he knew better than to argue. Knew Greyback well enough to recognize the sadistic glint in his eyes.

Besides, the ramifications of disobeying a direct order from the werewolf in charge would be...disastrous for all parties involved—even if one was foolishly inclined to throw all caution to the wind and make a break for the nearest hiking trail in one last-ditch effort to escape this ragtag pack of misfits and the rough, violent lifestyle forced upon them by a man whose only concern was the expansion of his power...and by extension, his territory.

But _of course_ he knew better than to try.

Experience had taught him the folly of running away. He'd been dragged back often enough—sometimes kicking and screaming, sometimes subdued and defeated—to know exactly what befell those foolish enough to buck against the reins involuntarily binding their will to Greyback's.

A cruel representation of a familial bond, induced by necessity and a strong, almost desperate desire to survive.

One that kept him leashed. Like a common, household _pet_.

And Remus, self-loathing pacifist that he was, could do nothing but submit to the older male's power, even as he inwardly struggled not to give into the darkness completely.

But despite his stubborn will, born of a need to maintain _some_ semblance of individuality, he still found himself floundering and teetering on the edge of the precipice, unease infusing his body with an even stronger desire to flee—to distance himself from the monster he was destined to become at the behest of his maker.

After all, it was only a matter of time before he knuckled under the weight of the wolf's instincts, fueled by primal urges and the unavoidable pull of the full moon.

But—well, maybe, just maybe, until then, he could embrace normality like an old friend, if only so he could live (at least for a little while) without fear of losing himself to the hunger and animalistic rage that churned and roiled in the pit of his stomach, reaching into every orifice of his life and defiling all that had once made him moralistically human.

Because, at the end of the day, he didn't _want_ to be an uncontrollable, unconscionable killing machine. Didn't much fancy the idea of being molded into a mini-version of Greyback to appease the older werewolf's unjustified sense of entitlement...Nor did he want or need another reason to hate himself.

If anything, he was in dire need of an injection of optimism to offset the blue devils draped indolently across his shoulders.

A difficult, if not impossible, task seeing how nothing he said or did seemed to deter the annoying, little buggers.

"Has the little coward finally decided to _wolf_ up?" A low, gravelly tone suddenly echoed behind him. Uncomfortably, chillingly loud in the silence.

Remus tensed, immediately recognizing the voice. It had featured in his nightmares often enough, both as a child and as an adolescent on the cusp of adulthood, that he would have little trouble identifying it in his sleep.

So when Greyback nonchalantly entered the clearing, sharp, bloodstained teeth bared in a cruel caricature of a smile, his adrenaline spiked, oxygen flooding in and out of his lungs as he struggled to regain control of his emotions. To curb-stomp his fear into a million, tiny pieces until nothing remained of it, not even its shadow.

He failed.

His breath lifting into short, high pants, Remus pressed his hand flat against his own chest, feeling his heart thumping hard against his palm.

Then, as dread pooled in the pit of his stomach, his amber gaze dropped to the broken body of the woman lying limp at the alpha's bare feet—before hastily looking away, his face pale and drawn. Unlike the woman's, the deep gouges running along her cheeks wringing an unmistakable grimace of trepidation from him. He didn't need to tap into the keener senses of his wolf to know that not only was the poor woman dead but that her last moments on earth had been nothing short of horrifying.

"No," he muttered, avoiding looking directly at the woman. "I want no part of that." He gestured toward the body, a small hint of defiance bleeding through despite his best efforts to curb it.

 _Fun fact_ : alphas didn't take too kindly to opposition.

Indeed, most would've taken it as a direct challenge to their position and responded in kind, seeking only to put the would-be contender in their rightful place.

Why should he, this nutter who thought nothing of kidnapping children and exposing them to a lifetime of torment, be any different?

"Weak cub," Greyback growled, pale blue eyes narrowing angrily at Remus's bravado. A bravado that straddled the line between petulance and outright challenge, a line one would have to be pretty stupid to cross. Or reckless. And judging from the slit-eyed, incensed look he fixed on Remus—a look that promised retribution and lots and lots of pain should Remus dare to thumb his nose at the line—it _clearly_ rubbed his fur the wrong way.

Which wasn't all that surprising.

For someone of Greyback's...temperament, it wouldn't take much to send him over the edge.

It never did.

"The wolf has needs, boy. Neglecting them will only get you killed. Is that what you want, little one?" He cocked one thick, brown eyebrow mockingly, an undertone of enmity present in his voice, weaving through the rougher undercurrents of a timbre that never seemed to lose its glottal edge. "Do you want to die?" Greyback's eyes glittered dangerously, as if pleased by the mere thought of watching the vibrant life drain from the eyes of the only one who dared to gainsay him. "Maybe I should just end you now—save your wolf the trouble of doing it himself."

Remus visibly flinched at the implied threat, nervously rubbing his palms on his thighs as small beads of cold sweat broke out on his forehead. "No. O-of course I don't...But this—" a hasty nod toward the crumpled, unmoving form of the man's latest prey, felled by the gleam of inhumanity burning fiercely in Greyback's eyes. "—What you expect me to do...I can't. _I can't_."

His voice a near-whisper, inaudible only to those with inferior hearing, Remus ducked his head to hide the repulsion in his eyes...but soon found his attention divided between the dark, scowling countenance of Greyback and the limp figure of his captured prey; his eyes, made all the more sharper by the wolf's presence in his mind, traced the purple and blue lines etched deeply in the woman's skin. The distinct outline of large hands stood out against the grey tinge to her skin, disappearing into the patchwork of mangled flesh marring her throat.

It looked as if she'd been strangled to death—before he'd ripped her throat out, painting a complete picture of abject hopelessness and finality.

Remus swallowed convulsively around the dry lump in his throat, more than a little shaken by that thought. "I-I don't want to hurt anyone."

Greyback said nothing at first, displeasure tautening the muscles along his jaw. After a long, tension-filled moment, however, he shook his head, muttering to himself, " _Pathetic_." Then, in a louder voice, tone noticeably rife with irritation—"Stupid boy. Prey is prey. They've got only one purpose in life, and that's to be hunted. It's the natural order of things." He paused for a moment to pin Remus with a pointed look, his gaze heavily imbued with unabashed voracity. "Wouldn't want to upset such a delicate balance now, would we?" The threat of violence hung heavily in the air like a brewing storm, lost to the unpredictability of nature. "Bad things tend to happen when you do."

It was Remus's turn to say nothing, chin tucked against his chest as he tried to ignore the man's looming presence.

But his words—those damning, insistent words—wouldn't leave him alone, circling his mind until they all but drowned out the soft, timid tenor of his own conscience, eager (as always) to wreak havoc on his nerves...and while his inner wolf, which was nothing more than an adolescent compared to Greyback's, struggled against the instinctive urge to bear his throat in submissiveness, slender fingers pressed into the skin of his forearms, nails biting sharply into his skin as powerlessness and fear twisted tighter in his stomach.

Submit. Submit. _Submit_.

 _ **No**_.

"No?"

Remus blanched, unable to look the older werewolf in the eyes for fear of what he would find there. His own undoing, perhaps?

"Are you challenging me?" There was a twinge of disbelief in the alpha's voice, as well as anger. " _Me_?" The anger deepened into something closely resembling full-blown rage, and with a careless flick of his wrist, Greyback tossed the body aside, his penetrating stare burning holes in the side of Remus's head all the while. _If looks could kill_...

" _Answer me_ ," Greyback growled harshly, sharp claws sliding from his fingertips as he took several intimidating steps forward, large, scarred hands already reaching for him. "Are. You. Challenging. Me?" He punctuated each word with a vicious tug on Remus's hair, claws scraping against his scalp with every tug.

"No!" Remus snapped out in quick denial, wincing as a particularly hard tug sent a jolt of pain straight to his neck. " _No_. I-I'm not looking to take your place. _I couldn't_." A hint of hysteria crept into his voice, ending his denial on a strained note.

"Really," Greyback hummed, the sound incongruous to the sheer depth of animosity emanating from him like a concentrated wave of acetone, flammable and volatile and far too deadly to ignore. "Are you lying to me?" The air around him crackled with command, an oppressive force that raised Remus's hackles even as it tried to strong-arm him into submission.

"I'm not _stupid_ ," he muttered, licking his suddenly dry lips. "You're the alpha." An alpha he was nowhere near strong enough to overpower. His instincts said so.

"Smart boy." Greyback forced Remus's head up then with the blunt edge of a claw, piercing blue meeting subdued amber in what would have been a clash of stubborn wills if Remus had been up to the fight. But unfortunately, he was too weary to even try. "You're learning."

Said boy held perfectly still lest he suffer a monster headache for the rest of the night.

"What am I to do with you, Lupin?" Greyback tutted, giving the sandy-brown strands a deceptively gentle pat. But there was nothing gentle about the look in his eyes or the ugly twist to his mouth. "Your wolf needs to hunt." _Correction_ , _you need to fall into line or else_ —

A slight clearing of the throat suddenly intruded on their conversation, and both werewolves whipped around just in time to see another werewolf approaching at a sedate pace, an air of calm obeisance about him.

Remus bit his lip to keep himself from sighing, inwardly thankful to no longer be the center of attention and very much grateful for the distraction that had managed to sidetrack Greyback from that dangerous line of thought. A line he had no business yanking on, even if he only did it to see how the brunet would react.

What Greyback thought his wolf needed _didn't_ matter, not in the long run. The lunatic just didn't get it. How could he when he was _so_ convinced he knew everything? That he was right and that everyone else could go take a nosedive off the nearest cliff? The man clearly wasn't interested enough in his packmates to even entertain the possibility that not everyone would share the same desire to join a community of weres who had no choice but to live on the edge of society, separate from man. As long as it was what _he_ wanted—well, nothing else mattered.

And that just wasn't right.

It shouldn't be that way.

 _Yeah_ , _tell that to_ _ **him**_.

" _What_?" The low snarl rebounded around the woods, and for a moment, Remus thought he'd spoken his unfavorable opinion aloud.

But no, Greyback was too busy glaring at the newcomer to spare Remus a glance.

"Alpha Greyback." The blond male—one of the more level-headed betas—inclined his head respectfully. "Wand poachers. East of Cochrood. On the outskirts of our territory." Simple and to the point, but that was how Greyback liked it. Excessive rambling did nothing but irritate him.

A sneer passed over Greyback's face as he slowly straightened, cracking his neck. "Hoodoo scum," he hissed, moving away from where Remus still sat, trying to make himself as small as possible to avoid regaining his attention. "Gather the lieutenants, Derrick. We've got us a couple of wand poachers to ferret out."

Derrick nodded and quickly moved off to do as Greyback bid, leaving the two werewolves alone once again. A fact that made Remus _nervous_.

Tension thickened the air, cloying and heavy. And dense, much like fog creeping down the tops of elm trees in search of land to cover. But it wasn't nearly dense enough to hide how _sharply_ malice rose on the wind, bringing with it the presage of bloodshed.

"This conversation isn't over."

Icy fear swept through him at the violent promise etched into the hard lines of Greyback's face, his relief short-lived. As he knew it would be.

He'd been given a reprieve from the violence tonight—that much was obvious—but Remus knew it wasn't permanent. Sooner or later, he would have to face the music.

"Don't move, cub," Greyback bit out coldly, a feral tilt shaping his lips. "You won't like the consequences if you do."

Remus bowed his head, conceding to the stronger were without argument, and waited until Greyback finally left before settling in for yet another night of uneasiness and inner turmoil, left to his own restless thoughts. Thoughts that continued to haunt and agitate his brain, gaining an impressively notable voice he could no longer ignore or disregard.

Said voice insisted that despite wishing otherwise, eventually, he would have no choice but to accept his role as one of several members of a functioning werewolf pack he wanted nothing to do with. But he didn't want to give the alpha a reason to go after his younger brother, which was _exactly_ what Greyback would do if he continued to flaunt his insubordination. He would have no qualms about dragging another innocent boy into this harsh, fearsome lifestyle, treating it like the gift it most certainly was _not_. In fact, he'd do it purely out of spite—just as he'd done to Remus all those years ago.

As if on cue, a savage howl pierced the night, the signal to attack. And when several more answered the call, echoing through the trees, Remus grimaced, wrapping his arms more securely around his knees as he struggled to find something, some random bit of thought, to focus on in order to take his mind off of the impending _lecture_.

 _ **Padfoot**_.

Meeting Padfoot had been entirely unexpected but not at all unwelcome, and he'd rather enjoyed being in the handsome stranger's company; it had been pleasant and comfortable and pleasantly comfortable, a sensation that could fast become addictive if he wasn't careful.

The man had practically radiated warmth like a furnace, encompassing everything in his path, a welcoming buffer to the depravity and cruelty he bore witness to every day.

Furthermore, tendrils of soft warmth had snaked around him, pulling him further and deeper into Padfoot's demesne of amiability, leaving him with a feeling of..contentment, one that had lingered for hours after he'd woken to find himself back among his kind—with Greyback staring angrily at him from across the room, silent but intimidating in his acrimony.

Remus couldn't even remember the last time he'd been hugged, but he assumed it'd feel a little like that.

As dreams went, he couldn't have found a better one.

But as much as he hated to admit, all good things must come to an end.

"Padfoot," he whispered and with a dejected sigh closed his eyes, his mind already starting to drift. Searching for the comfort of a pair of teasing eyes, witty repartees, and a mischievous grin—a grin that had made his stomach flutter...

Drawn to the source of warmth hovering in the back of his mind, beckoning him over with playful nudges, he finally gave in to his instincts, which urged him to sink even deeper into his subconscious, thus allowing himself to be immersed in the sensation of _rightness_ that seeped into his very soul, entwining with the pieces of his heart he kept locked up in hopes of preserving what little innocence he could before the monster managed to destroy it all.

"Moony!"

Startled, his eyes popped open, but before he could reply, a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark hair, aristocratic features, and striking, grey eyes _glomped_ him, nearly causing him to stumble back from the sheer exuberance of the tackle.

" _Yes_! I'm not barking mad! Well, I _am_. Sometimes. But you being here means I haven't gone completely round the bend. Yet. Unless you're really part of my imagination and you've somehow gotten free...Good on you if you did," Padfoot babbled excitedly, casually running his fingers through Remus's hair as if he couldn't get enough of touching it—of touching _him_.

The affectionate gesture, as confounding as it was, also served to ground the brunet, soothing the anxiety lingering in his thoughts.

"You'd tell me if you weren't real, right?" A genuine plea underlying his words, Padfoot didn't stop his gentle ministrations, long, elegant fingers trailing through Remus's sandy-brown hair, separating strands and pulling them away from his neck with expert ease. "You certainly _feel_ real."

When the tips of Padfoot's fingers teasingly brushed against his bare nape, it roused a low whimper from his wolf.

Remus bit his lip and nodded, his wolf— _Moony_ , his subconscious reminded him—whining at the thought of leaving the shorter male in a state of agitation. Or _any_ state that would impact him negatively.

Bewilderment creased his brows at Moony's strange reaction to a man who, for all intents and purposes, was nothing more than a friendly acquaintance. Or _should_ have been. It was almost as if the blasted creature recognized him on some deeper level, apart from their initial meeting.

"I'm as real as you are. Unfortunately," he muttered that last bit under his breath, the word tumbling out of his mouth without his consent...followed shortly by a soft groan. _Damn_. He hadn't meant to say that out loud, as he hadn't wanted him (or anyone) to realize the depth of hopelessness he'd fallen into.

But Padfoot knew.

(Of course he knew.)

It was practically written all over his face and in every line of his body.

He tried to cover his confusion with a boyish smile, but the fact that he all but _exuded_ bewilderment didn't help; there were deep lines of confusion etched around Padfoot's eyes as he briefly adopted a look of concentration, and Remus could practically see the wheels turning in his mind as he tried to decipher the reason behind the glumness in his voice.

Rather than give into his confusion and ask what he meant, however, Padfoot dropped his arm around Remus, giving his shoulder an affectionate squeeze before taking a step back with apparent reluctance. "Oh, good! You had me worried there for a second."

"Worried? Why?" He cocked his head, the muscles that had tensed at the other man's touch gradually relaxing. Until confusion stirred at the conflicting emotions, causing him to stiffen. He felt equally relieved and...bothered by Padfoot's distance, and he didn't quite know what to make of it. He'd even begun to lean in his direction before he realized what he was doing—like he wanted to surround himself in the familiar, comforting warmth of someone who not only cared but who welcomed his presence, heavy baggage and all. Just by being in his vicinity allowed him to bask in the sensation of _home_ that coursed through his body like a drug, hot and tingling.

"I was afraid I'd made you up—that I'd finally cracked." Padfoot wrinkled his nose, the impish gesture at odds with the sardonic nature of his comment. "Probably have. Just look at my family. The Black Madness strikes again!" He threw his arms up in a parody of a victory salute, a deep chuckle rumbling up from his throat.

Remus's eyebrows drew together in a troubled expression. Black Madness? That didn't sound good. Neither did _cracking_. "You should give your imagination more credit. I wouldn't even rank in the _top ten best creations_." He paused, a frown plucking at his lips. Nor did he appreciate the mental image Padfoot managed to concoct with his idiosyncratic sense of humor. "You're fine. You haven't…cracked."

Padfoot feigned polite disinterest, as if he'd chosen to ignore his words—before his well-manufactured veneer cracked, and his mouth stretched into a wide, toothy grin. "Not today," he allowed, once more stepping into Remus's personal space. "But enough about that. I'd rather talk about you." Padfoot's grin softened as he brought his hand up to cup the brunet's jaw, his index finger lazily tracing the soft curve of his earlobe.

The calloused tip lightly grazed Remus's skin, sending a jolt of pleasure lancing through him. "M-me?" A faint blush crept up his cheeks. "Why?"

"Why not?"

His blush deepened. "There's not much to tell."

"Says who?" Padfoot leaned forward, his voice brimming with pleasant expectation. His face was so close that his warm breath tickled Remus's skin, his lips a mere hairbreadth from his. "Don't listen to liars. You can't expect them to tell the truth. Hell, they wouldn't know what to do with the truth even if it grew another head and turned into a double-ended newt...Or if it suddenly developed a taste for garden gnome." He faked a dry heave at that. "Why it would is anyone's guess."

"What's a double-ended newt?"

" _So_ not the point, Moony." He framed Remus's face with his hands, making him meet his gaze—a gaze so sharp it threatened to cut through his doubt, popping it like an overinflated balloon. "Someone's really done a number on you, huh?"

"I don't know what you mean," Remus mumbled, trying to avert his eyes but finding he couldn't.

"Don't worry," Padfoot assured, lips lifting into a reassuring half-smile. "We'll fix that."

.

.

.

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 **A/N** : last edited 2/7/19.


End file.
